Ordinary Day
by Carey-M6
Summary: A short ficlet to celebrate my... nothing, but why not? John thought his life after the war wold be dull. How wrong he was.


He thought it was going to be an ordinary day. An ordinary day for an ordinary ex-army doctor. He was taking a walk, limping with his cane to support him, when he passed a man on a bench who looked vaguely familiar. The man was wearing a kaki trench coat and a suit underneath. Glasses on a face that was slightly on the chubby side. Then, as John was about to pass him, the man spoke up.

"John! John Watson!"

John turned back around and looked at the man. He spoke again, "Stamford. Mike Stamford, we were at Bart's together."

That's why he was familiar.

"Yes, Mike. Hello, yes I remember."

"Yeah, I know. I got fat."

"No, of course not..."

After a pause, Mike spoke up once more, "I heard you abroad somewhere getting shot at, what happened."

"I got shot."

Mike offered John a cup of coffee. So they were sitting on the bench, sipping their coffee when John looked towards his left hand and saw it shaking. After talking about Harry and flat mates, Mike told John about a man who might be interested in a flat share. Mike led John to St. Bart's Hospital and as John approached the building he used to go to school at, he thought about who the man he would be meeting would be like. _What if he was terrible? What if he was rude? What if he doesn't like me or I don't like him?_

When he and Mike walked through the doors to a lab that John hadn't seen before, John saw a man bent over a lab table, examining something.. Said man was holding a dropper over another chemical of some sort. He had curly, black hair, pale skin, and when he looked up at John, he saw the man's eyes. His eyes. They were silver/blue/clear. John felt as if they penetrated his own soul. I t was a bit unnerving. Sitting below those eyes were sharp cheekbones covered in pale, unmarked skin and led down an impossibly long neck.

After seeing the man and taking in all his features, John noticed the room. "Bit different from my day," he stated quietly.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone?" The man's deep baritone echoed through the room.

"What's wrong with the landline?"

"I prefer to text."

Mike checked his pockets and said, "Sorry, I left it in my coat."

John pulled his phone out of his pocket and said, "Here, use mine."

"Oh. Thank you." He tapped away at the mobile and without looking up said, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

It took John a moment to realize the question was directed towards him. "Sorry, what?"

"I said Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"…Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you—" Then Molly Hopper came through the doors with a mug in her hands.

The man took the mug after saying, "Ah, Molly, coffee, thank you." He looked at Molly's face. "What happened to the lipstick?"

She hesitated, skittish, and said, "It- it wasn't working for me."

"Really? I thought it was a big improvement," he said as he beganwalking away. "Your mouth's too… small now."

"Okay…" Then she walked out of the room.

The man took a sip of his coffee and asked, "How do you feel about the violin?"

"What?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end; would that bother you? Potential flat mate should know the worst about each other," he said, finishing with a smile.

John looked at Mike, who was now inspecting a glass vile. "Sorry, you told him about me?"

Mike shook his head and said, "Not a word."

"Then who said anything about flat mates?" John asked.

"I did," said the man as John realized he still didn't know his name. "I told Mike earlier that I must be a hard man to find a flate mate for and now, here he is, back with an old friend clearly just back from military service in Afghanistan; wasn't a difficult leap." Al the while he said this, he was putting on his wool coat and deep blue scarf. "Got my eye on a place in central London. Together we should be able to afford it. Sorry, got to dash; I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

As the man was walking towards the door, John said, "Is that it, then?"

The man turned towards John. "Is that what?"

John looked from him to Mike and back and said, "We've only just met, and we're already gonna look at a flat."

"Problem?"

"We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name."

The man put on a face of concentration and began talking with speed.

"I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him—possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly I'm afraid." He took a breath. "That's enough to be going on with, don't you think? " He walked to the door and was halfway out when he said, "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street. Afternoon."

John looked at Mike with a disbelieving look on his face. Mike said, "Yeah. He's always like that."

When John got back to his small apartment, he opened his drawer and pulled out his laptop. Sitting in front of the search bar, he waited before typing in 'Sherlock Holmes.' When he hit enter, the result that drew his attention appeared to be Sherlock's website. 'The Science of Deduction.' _Interesting,_ John thought. But as John read through it, he became less impressed. _What a load of bollocks._

* * *

_Author's Notes: _

_So, this is my first fic. Hope you enjoy. XD_


End file.
